


Touch

by Lacertae



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Omnics, Present Tense, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 16:17:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9279623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacertae/pseuds/Lacertae
Summary: *Genyatta* Genji used to be a tactile person, until he became a cyborg. It takes Zenyatta’s presence to rekindle the need for contact within him, afterwards.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired to write this by the Genyatta week. I got in this fandom too late to join that, but I felt the need to join the fun so I wrote this today. Hopefully it makes someone as happy as it made me write it.
> 
> First genyatta fic but not first overwatch fic. i hope you like!

**Touch**

 

Genji is not a tactile person.

Not anymore.

Before –before Overwatch, before his entire life was ripped out from beneath his feet, like a magician pulling a cloth away only for the vases and glasses to fall off the table, shattering– his life had been wild and free. Genji had enjoyed touching, and being touched.

There is a certain kind of beauty that blossoms through touch, the kind that is conveyed with soft, delicate fingers caressing a path down a warm frame, slowly, and Genji had always prided himself for being a connoisseur.

Touch was a big part of who he was, taking everything he wanted, experiencing and learning, and when that person ceased to be and the new Genji was born from its ashes, things had changed.

Fingers are not as warm as before, his body not as pliable. It can endure so much more, he’s faster and stronger, and yet he’s lost something in the passage that sometimes, late at night, he mourns.

The contours of his body are hard and unyielding, the only skin he has left is marred in scars and ugly to the sight, and he covers it up, unable to even look at what is left of that Genji. Genji the human is dead, and what’s left is a caricature made of tin cans.

Overwatch is almost a constant reminder of what he’s lost, and there are times, when he’s sitting in the dark, unable to sleep ( _unable to shut down_ ), that he _hates_ it all.

He hates the choice he was offered when all he could think about was ‘I don’t want to die’. He hates that he’s survived, and that he can’t think back without feeling an intense wave of anger and pain. He wishes it could be less pain and more anger, but they are equal within him. He hates that the most.

He hates the way McCree punches his shoulder after a mission, trying to create a sense of camaraderie that Genji feels is entirely unwarranted, no matter how much he _likes_ McCree. He hates the constant stares from Angela whenever they happen to be in the same room –and that is often, because she worries so much for him, all the time, and he can’t stand it.

(A part of him is angry because _she_ made him into this, and he didn’t even know it, couldn’t opt out, and he’s the one who has to live with it, and feels angry and guilty, because she still saved his life, but he can’t erase the anger, nor the fact that there is a voice inside him that he tries so hard to silence, and that voice is full of _hatred_. Their professional relationship is tense, and he takes refuge in a politeness that was never truly his own but that somewhere down the road his family had instilled into him. The hate simmers, and never ceases.)

He hates to see others exchange touches as well, something that had been normal before he grew to hate his body and what he has become. It was never important before he started noticing, but now that he rejects touches, his eyes seek out the familiar gestures in the people surrounding him, and he can’t stop.

He hates Reyes, the soft tilt of his upper lip when he looks his way after he’s done something good, and he hates Morrison’s gruff words of appreciation as the two fall into practiced squabbles with one another right afterwards, bumping shoulders, elbowing one another, laughing.

He hates Torbjörn and Reinhardt’s constant roughhousing, the ease they share with one another.

Touching, touching, _touching_.

He’d never paid so much attention to how much people touched others before, unless that touching was a way to lure someone close, a way to flirt.

He sees all of it now, and he hates it.

He hates that he misses it, and feels like he doesn’t belong now.

When he leaves, he does so quietly, hoping that his leaving will not be missed. He’s relieved to be alone, but there’s a part of him that misses the company, and these feelings battle within him constantly.

Genji tries to move on, and it is harder than ever. He wants to be forgotten, he wants to rust somewhere, but he keeps going, and isn’t even sure what he’s seeking until he finds it.

It is when he’s lost –more lost than he’s ever been in his life, even if he denies it– that he meets an omnic.

What looks like a frail, delicate omnic monk, full of cliché lines about acceptance and love, seems to experience life more than Genji was ever able to, and it’s like a slap in the face.

The monk –Zenyatta is his name– latches onto him with stubbornness that makes Genji lash out at him, and when instead of leaving, Zenyatta mercilessly beats him to the ground, Genji is swept away, and is forcefully shoved on the path of recovery.

Years in the future, he will look back and laugh, relief mixed with pain, so grateful he could cry, but he’s not there yet. There is a long way to go, still.

Zenyatta is a relentless master, but the upsetting part is that just like every human Genji has met in the past, Zenyatta reaches out to others often, freely and without restraint. The discordant duality of a robot who seeks out contact like it’s normal is grating to Genji’s nerves at first, fights against all the hatred he has inside his core, and the worst part is that Zenyatta does not care.

The pleasure he seems to feel when he reaches out with simple gestures is not lost to Genji, but he feels empty, and can’t relate to that even as he watches it unfold over and over.

He sees Zenyatta talk with other monks of his order, a casual touch of his fingers on their arm, leading them down the monastery corridors, and he sees the touch he bestows upon an apprentice when they finish a task, pressing one hand on the top of their head that fills them with pride. He watches the smile from the apprentice if it’s human, the soft murmur of fans heating up if he’s omnic, and forces himself to look away.

Genji has almost forgotten what touch feels like, and he believes he’s gotten over the small part of him that still craves it, because a much bigger part still rejects the very idea of him being able to feel it like in the past.

He is sure he’s ok with it.

That, too, changes with time.

He is barely aware of healing as he goes through it.

Time passes slowly in the monastery, and there is a lot to do that isn’t just meditating and spending time with Zenyatta, though that part is the one he likes the best. Zenyatta is special, he’s sure of it, and every minute they have together makes Genji sure of it.

He thinks he will never truly move on, or live again, until one morning he wakes up and instead of the weight pressing him down against the thin mattress, making it hard to get up, he feels… content.

During the night he used to have nightmares, but even those are absent now. He dreams of the past sometimes still, but it’s not as daunting anymore. it does not hurt.

Even that comes as a surprise.

His first thought is to get up, do his chores and join Zenyatta in his morning meditation session, and the thought brings him joy, as it always is when he thinks about his master.

That is when Genji understands that he’s changed, and with that fact acknowledged, more come to him.

He has been saved. He’s found a place that has welcomed him, and a person who has helped him, asking for nothing in return, and the feelings blossoming inside him threaten to overcome Genji as he quietly embraces them, sitting on his bed alone, for what feels like forever.

He has been cleansed out day after day, replacing hatred with something else, something softer, and sweeter, like the sound of Zenyatta’s laughter.

Genji has learned to feel again, and he welcomes it as a gift.

That day, Genji finds his focus solely on Zenyatta, even when the two of them are not together, and from that day on, Genji continues to live with those feelings inside him, but with them, there is also something else he realises, and when he does, things change once again.

Zenyatta never touches him.

Him, specifically.

He never has –as far as he can remember, despite how close the two of them have become, the only times he’s felt their metallic sensors touching was during combat, when they sparred in the empty lands outside of the monastery… and even then, the touch was fleeting.

No proud touches or prods for attention, not even delicate guiding hands to show him the best way to hold himself while meditating, nothing.

Like that, Genji realises the craving within him is for more than just acceptance and healing, and the hunger grows until it devours him from the inside, like a deep ache settled where his core is, where his heart would have been if he still had a human body.

For the first time in forever, Genji feels starved for touch, the kind he’d always had before, the kind he had rejected afterwards for so long, and this time he is unrestrained in his need, accepts that it’s just another way Zenyatta has helped, but can’t understand why there was none all this time, as Zenyatta is not frugal with such gestures with others.

Whenever he sees Zenyatta stop to attract someone’s attention with a hand on their shoulder, he feels the ache grow within him, but can’t find the words to bring it to attention.

Whenever he sees Zenyatta embrace a fellow monk, an apprentice, even an exuberant kid… Genji feels that ache increase until his body throbs with need, wants to reach out and take Zenyatta’s fingers in his own, hold onto them and then hold the omnic in his arms, and longs for the feeling of Zenyatta’s arms wrap around his shoulders in a similar hold.

At first he does not understand what’s wrong –why would Zenyatta offer such gestures to others, but never to the student he professes is his favourite? There is no false modesty there, Genji feels pride in calling Zenyatta his master, and even more so when Zenyatta calls him his student with such a warm, pleasant happiness in his tone. Zenyatta never shies away from him, never rebukes him, never moves away when Genji gets close to him, and if Genji hadn’t noticed the lack of touches, he would have never felt any sort of distance from the two of them.

It is not about Zenyatta’s preference over others, and Genji has moved further along in his healing that he understands Zenyatta harbours no dislike, no hatred and no disgust towards him as he had thought at first, before truly getting to know him.

So then, why the difference?

It takes him a long time for Genji to understand, and when he does, the weight on his chest is equal parts love and fond respect. He only finds out because he sees it happening to someone else.

It is a kid who has been brought to the monastery from a nearby village, one that has been hurt by his family, a kid who does not like adults towering over him, or being too close. The monastery is a safe place, and the kid is left there while the local authorities file his name out for the social services.

The kid refuses to talk or interact with anyone. Even Mondatta is no exception, something in his stance too severe, too imposing despite his soft words and his placid movements.

Except Zenyatta, who wins him over slowly, and Genji is there to observe as it happens.

Genji watches as Zenyatta does not approach him, does not reach out to him, but always sits so that the kid is at the same height as Zenyatta, and they speak as equals, and Zenyatta never moves his hands from his lap, every single time they interact.

He is careful, he is interacting with the world around them, engaging the kid only when he has permission, when he wants to.

After two weeks, the kid is the one who approaches him first, one tiny hand delicately pressing against Zenyatta’s leg to get his attention before offering him a tiny flower the kid has found somewhere in the valleys surrounding the monastery.

There is no visible change on the unmoving face of Zenyatta, but Genji can feel the smile radiating from his very being, and the kid can, too, as he’s spent so long around him that he notices. The kid is shy and flustered, but the small grin that appears on his young face is the most beautiful thing in the world.

It is so simple, then, to understand, that Genji feels almost silly for not realising it first, but he had not been looking, until then.

Zenyatta was respecting a boundary Genji had set on himself without even noticing.

Genji refused touch, physically moved away and refused to instigate it, and if Zenyatta could read the disquiet in his soul enough to offer his services even when Genji refused him over and over, it was no surprise he would understand that, too, and reflect that with his attitude.

Now things are different, but Genji has never expressed that to Zenyatta and unless he does, nothing will change.

Part of him surges forwards at that thought, wants to change it, wants to reassure Zenyatta that it’s okay, that it would be welcome, more than that…

But he has to pause, calm himself and find his centre, breathe and wait until his core stops overheating.

It is new and welcome, and he wants to enjoy this new change within himself as yet another thing he thought he would never get to feel again.

That evening, after supper has ended and the monks and the apprentices have retired for the night, Genji seeks out Zenyatta in one of the terraces of the upper levels of the monastery.

He pauses on the step of the balcony, one hand pressed against the cold wall, and observes the silent figure of his master, his eyes recalibrating for the different light source and sharpening the contours of Zenyatta’s body.

Every angle and curve of Zenyatta is familiar to Genji’s eyes. He looks small and frail yet harbours a strength unlike any other, one Genji respects and admires. The love he feels for Zenyatta is more than anything he’s felt before, bleeds through with every breath he takes, full of gratitude and happiness at being allowed to walk at his side and learn from him, and he knows that there is nothing wrong with feeling like that, even if Zenyatta will not reciprocate his love.

He won’t ask for more than this, and already feeling this much love is more than he thought he could, before.

Seconds tick by as he basks in the sight, but when Zenyatta does not turn to look at him, eyes focused on the night sky above them, Genji does not hesitate and steps as close as possible before reaching out with one hand.

His fingers tremble for no reason –because he should not be wary, he should not be tentative when he’s so sure he understands now– but they do, and then he touches Zenyatta’s shoulder, and watches as the emotionless visage of his master turns to look at him.

“Hello, Genji,” he says, and the warmth in his voice envelops Genji like a blanket.

“Good evening, master,” he says, and his hand stays where it is. His voice sounds foreign even to his own ears, softer and warmer than he’s ever heard himself speak. “Have you been here for long?”

His attention is almost entirely focused on his hand, and it should be stupid because it’s just a small contact, the sensors under the tips of his fingers relaying to him the temperature of the night and the firm contact with Zenyatta’s shoulder, but there is so much more to him than that, and he can’t believe he spent years cutting himself from this.

He wasn’t ready before, though.

There had been no Zenyatta, before, either.

“No. I was waiting for you to come and find me,” Zenyatta answers, and returns to stare at the sky. “There’s supposed to be a meteor shower tonight, and I wished to see it with your company”.

Genji feels a knot in his throat that he knows is all nerves, and swallows it down. “Nothing would please me more, master”.

He removes his hand, prepared to sit down on one of the cushions Zenyatta has prepared on the balcony already, and then he stutters into a halt when Zenyatta reaches out and then takes his hand into one of his own.

“Let us enjoy this time together, then, my student,” he says.

He sits down, and tugs Genji down with him, and through it all he does not let go of his hand, and Genji–

Genji thinks that he’s never felt more at home ever in his life before, sitting with Zenyatta in the dark as they observe the sky twinkling above them.

Zenyatta’s hand is smaller and lither than his own –his model was not built to fight, while Genji’s was created to serve as a weapon– so it cannot envelop it fully, but the contact is like fire.

There is no skin anywhere and yet his sensors are overcharged with tension, sending information Genji does not need to know about the pressure of their hands together, the heat, the strength of the hold… what matters is the soft feeling of fingertips rubbing against the back of his hand.

It feels like they sit there for a long time, Zenyatta massaging his hand, that tiny contact a sparkle between them, and Genji is not paying attention to anything else. Not the sky, not the cold –he has his eyes close so he can fully enjoy this moment of closeness that he’s been waiting for so long.

Neither of them speak, but after a while Genji feel this is not enough, and turns his hand around so he’s the one holding Zenyatta now, caressing the length of those long, thin fingers like they are a perfect treasure.

He lets himself feel it, his sensors rushing to catalogue everything from the smooth polished metal to its shine, and it’s like being reborn anew.

The feeling completes him, like he is whole again.

Even that gentle motion is brought to an end, but not because Zenyatta tugs his hand away –no, it is only because Zenyatta rearranges their hold so their fingers are intertwined together, comfortably holding hands.

Genji opens his eyes, his fans speeding up to prevent him from overheating, and expels a gust of steam from the vents in his shoulders, his core fluttering when his ears catch the sound of Zenyatta’s internal fans whirring faster for the same reason.

His voice comes out choked when he speaks up next.

“How long…” he stops, almost echoing his words from before, and chuckles softly, and Zenyatta laughs with him, the sound making Genji sigh as he tightens his hold on Zenyatta’s hand. “Have you been waiting for long?”

“No, not long at all,” Zenyatta murmurs, and looks away from the sky to stare at him. His voice is amused, teasing. “I was waiting for you to come to me”.

Genji swallows the thick knot in his throat, and wonders if he is allowed to have this, if the universe has decided he has been cleansed enough to have this one good thing happen to him, if he deserves it because it’s the best thing one could ever want, and the universe has decided to give it to _him_ –

“Is that ok?” Zenyatta asks, tugging their hands up between them so what he means is clear, and he sounds unsure now, and Genji understands that completely but he would never ask for anything more than this, except he is a greedy, greedy man.

He unlatches the visor on his face and places it down at his side, and “Can I kiss you?” he asks.

Zenyatta laughs again, full of relief and happiness and mirth, and Genji leans forwards before he can think better of it, tugging Zenyatta closer by their joined hands, traces the side of his face with his free hand and meets the edge of his mouth piece with his lips.

There are no lips of any kind waiting there; he kisses a metallic surface but it is not disappointing at all, because Zenyatta’s face is warm to the touch, and the lights of his forehead array are flickering, glowing brightly in a way that betrays Zenyatta’s feelings, and Genji feels a happiness so strong he fears he might cry.

He does not, but it is a close call.

The kiss is soft and short, but he does not stop there. He kisses Zenyatta again, presses one butterfly kiss after the other, moves from one side of his face to the other, gently, reverently.

Each kiss makes Zenyatta’s fans whirr louder for a second, like a stutter or a gasp, and Genji hopes he can get that reaction again as often as possible.

He kisses down the jaw line, then back up to the mouth piece, presses their foreheads together and breathes softly, and then snorts in amusement when his breath condensates against the metal of Zenyatta’s face.

Behind Zenyatta, Genji catches the tail end of a shooting star in the sky, a flash of light so quick he barely has time to blink, but he used to chase shooting stars across open fields when he was little, looking up and practicing to be able to wish on them, so he’s ready.

It’s not like he has to think about what he wants.

“I wish we could stay like this forever,” he murmurs, and is startled when his words make Zenyatta chuckle again.

“It might get too cold if we linger outside too long, but there will be other nights for us to spend together staring at the sky,” he says, and he’s the one to move closer this time.

Zenyatta kisses him the way omnics kiss –a flare of electricity flaring up from the connectors on his mouth piece that make his LED array flicker for a second, and it travels to where he’s touching Genji’s lips like the softest tickle, a small electric discharge. It’s a weird feeling, but it’s pleasant because the electricity gets absorbed by his metal, leaving behind a lingering trace of warmth , and Genji shivers.

He looks forwards to getting used to the feeling, just as he knows Zenyatta is fond already of his own version of kissing.

“And every day after that,” Genji murmurs. He wants more, he wants so much more, and he can’t help but demand it, like a petulant, greedy child.

Zenyatta laughs. “Yes, and every day after that, and more,” he promises.

With a delighted smile, Genji kisses him again.

 


End file.
